


Being Happy

by squidmemesinc



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Copious amounts of homosexuality, Lite Shenanigans, Mutual Pining, Other, Porn with Feelings, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, after delphi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-18 23:02:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11884686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squidmemesinc/pseuds/squidmemesinc
Summary: Without the other mech in his field of vision, it’s easier to sink back into the feeling that he’s had. That there’s time. Their end is still far off, so there’s still time. Time to do nothing about what he knows he feels. Time to keep pretending he doesn’t think about holding Drift when they’re not about to melt into rust.He sits up. And of course, as always, there’s time to work.





	Being Happy

**Author's Note:**

> HA!*
> 
> *Technically this is the first fic I ever started writing for tf. I left it alone for like, what, four months? And then I came back to it this weekend because I've been feeling gay over the red and white ones. I've also been wanting to write something with a bit of a plot recently. This doesn't quite fit the bill, but maybe I'm working my way up to it. 
> 
> Shout-out to Zig for being an enabler.

It’s certainly not the first time Ratchet’s woken up from a near-death experience in much better shape than he was before offlining. It’s not that waking up fixed in a familiar (or even unfamiliar) med bay with all his wounds patched up is a bad feeling, but it’s a bit jarring as his memory boots up, loading the last few things he remembers and finding them at odds with what he sees around him.

He remembers collapsing next to Drift on the roof of the Delphi medical center as they’d basically condemned Pharma to death. He remembers how little he’d cared, preoccupied with the advancement of Drift’s illness. He remembers running over, collapsing, his remaining arm around the unconscious bot, hoping desperately that he wouldn’t have to eat his words. ‘You’re not going to die.’ He could feel the tiniest thrum of Drift’s spark, his field unknowingly stretching out to Ratchet’s as they both faded to rust from Pharma’s virus.

Looking across the med bay, he sees Drift in the berth next to him, and Ambulon off in the corner attending to Pipes. Drift looks fine. Pipes looks fine, from what he can see. Everything’s worked out. He stares at Drift for just a moment longer, thinking about how close they’d come. The both of them, together. Without being hopeful, he knew this wasn’t where they were going to die—he’d been in far more dire situations before—but now he thinks about how it just as easily might have ended, with these unsaid feelings weighing on him, and he lets a slow vent out.

Drift is still offline. Ratchet looks back up to the ceiling for just a moment, and without the other mech in his field of vision, it’s easier to sink back into the feeling that he’s had. That there’s time. Their end is still far off, so there’s still time. Time to do nothing about what he knows he feels. Time to keep pretending he doesn’t think about holding Drift when they’re not about to melt into rust.

He sits up. And of course, as always, there’s time to work.

—

A week later, Ratchet catches Drift in the Lost Light med bay. Only he doesn’t quite catch him, because Trailcutter has accidentally said something unwise to Whirl and they’ve had a misunderstanding that’s involved Trailcutter getting one of his legs busted open. Trailcutter claims it was his own fault, but Ratchet’s been around long enough to realize that bots having had encounters with Whirl tend to be overly gracious in taking on their share of the blame. He thinks for a moment it might be a good idea to bring this up to Drift, to see if maybe Rodimus would find it worth his short attention span to have a chat with Whirl (for all the good that would do), and puts Trailcutter on hold to scoot over to where First Aid is talking to the ship’s third-in-command.

“It’s fine,” Drift is saying to First Aid. “Really, don’t worry. Hi, Doc,” he says to Ratchet belatedly. “Anyway, I’ve got to go.”

Ratchet glances at First Aid, who shrugs. “I had something I wanted to talk to you about,” he tells Drift.

Drift smile apologetically. Something looks a little off about him, and Ratchet realizes they haven’t spoken to each other in a week. Ratchet had even talked to Pipes a few days ago. “Ah, sorry, I’m in a bit of a hurry. Rodimus wanted to see me.”

“Well, perhaps it’s time for Rodimus to learn he can’t always get what he wants,” the doctor grumbles, pushing through his discomfort at Drift’s avoidance with the permission of his sense of responsibility. “You see Trailcutter over there?” He senses someone lumbering up behind him and turns. “Trailcutter over here, then. I said I was coming back, you shouldn’t put too much weight on that.”

“Actually, I had a thought about this being an opportunity in disguise. I was gonna go see Brainstorm,” Trailcutter says, patting Ratchet on the shoulder. He looks rather hopeful considering his injury. Ratchet is rather weary of the fight on the front of losing patients to Brainstorm, however. It seems fairly frequent to come up with a hole in one’s plating and decide that’s a good place for a gun, and he’s given up trying to convince thusly-preoccupied bots that maybe they should get _real_ medical attention.

Drift gets a ping on his communicator which he grimaces at, but then glances back up to notice Trailcutter brushing past him. He gives Ratchet a shrug and follows him out the door. “Glad I could help!” he calls back to Ratchet, waving and smiling in that bewilderingly carefree manner he has.

Ratchet scowls and doesn’t reply to him as he disappears with his patient. He turns to First Aid, who looks confused. “What did he want?”

First Aid taps his finger against his mask pensively. “He asked if you were busy. Said he had some kind of lingering spot from the red rust. I told him I could look at it, but when you came over, he just left. Well, you saw.” First Aid pauses. “He didn’t mention Rodimus, at first.”

Ratchet stares back at the door of the med bay as if it might hold some answers which will be revealed to him upon scrutiny. When none are, he grunts, dismissing the mystery and the image of Drift’s sleek frame disappearing after only a brief glance. “I’m sure we both have better things to do other than wonder why any of our numerous resident headcases are acting strangely. Come on,” he says, turning back towards their other patients.

—

The next time Ratchet sees Drift is a bit shy of another week, again in the med bay. Ratchet is unoccupied this time when he comes in, and at first he thinks Drift is just here to talk about something—maybe to follow up on Trailcutter. It’s a bit late, but he supposes pandering to Rodimus’ whims is a full-time job. Nevertheless, seeing Drift, his spark contracts with a small amount of anxiety, the source of which he can’t place. Maybe he feels guilty for his part in pulling back. He could have found Drift after Delphi if he wanted to. If he wasn’t trying to stuff everything back into its bottle so he could preserve the (relative) peace.

His processor is spinning around their last encounter, where Drift had acted a bit strangely, just popping in and out of the med bay apparently to see him, and upon seeing him, changing his mind.

He approaches Drift anyway. “Back again so soon?” he asks.

“What? No. Well, yes. I’m injured.”

Ratchet gives him a quick but calculating once over. The most notable damage he can pick out are the scratches—one on his chest, one on his midsection. They look shallow enough to not even register pain, and while he’s not in the business of denying service based on the insignificance of wounds (he’s been proven wrong enough times), he’s surprised Drift would come in for something that could almost just be buffed out.

“Where?” he grunts.

Of course, he’ll still give him a hard time.

“I thought you were supposed to be some genius medic,” Drift quips. He lets his fingers ghost along the two scratches in his frame and Ratchet curses the attention the slow movement draws to Drift’s frame. “I was training with Rodimus. He’s getting—” He hesitates before saying ‘good.’ “He’s improving.” He smiles again and Ratchet’s spark contracts for a different reason. “It’s nothing major, but you always get on my case when I don’t come in, so don’t snark.”

“Who says I’m snarking? Maybe my eyesight’s not as good as it used to be. I couldn’t pick out those two _micro-lesions,_ ” Ratchet replies with a smile. He motions Drift over to the berths by hovering his hand near his arm, not quite touching him.

“What do you gain out of _pretending_ to be decrepit all the time?” Drift wonders, leaning back. “And where is everyone? This place is a ghost town.”

“Slow day at the office,” Ratchet replies, choosing to ignore the first question as he gets out his magnifying glass. His optics really are a bit strained after years and years of detail work, but Drift isn’t wrong. He tends to exaggerate without really noticing, perhaps just an extension of his grumpy personality. “I told First Aid and Ambulon to take a break. They’ve been working hard.”

“So have you,” Drift points out, twitching almost imperceptibly as Ratchet’s fingers make contact with his frame to gently scope out the scratches. They haven’t quite penetrated the plating, and it’s unlikely they even register with his pain receptors. Drift has an ulterior motive for being here. “I bet First Aid wasn’t happy when you told him to leave.”

“Why not?” Ratchet asks, only half listening as he selects his tools.

“Because you told him you were going to retire, and now you’re sending him off on vacation.”

“We’re taking shifts,” Ratchet says. “I’m just taking the first one.”

Drift doesn’t reply, but Ratchet can feel him watching him for a long moment as he works to smooth out the scratches. He’s incredibly gentle with the simple maneuver, but in the drawing silence, he can hear Drift’s engine spinning up. “Am I hurting you?” he asks, pulling his instruments back and sitting up.

Drift sits up as well, missing his usual easy smile. “What? No, I just— I just...wanted to…”

The door to the med bay bursts open before Drift can say explain what it was he wanted, and in come Rewind, Atomizer, Dipstick, Xaaron, Sprocket, and Slapdash. Dipstick appears to have an arrow sticking out of his chest, spark-adjacent but not quite lethal, thankfully. This doesn’t stop Atomizer looking guilty as he supports Dipstick’s weight with Xaaron. An even guiltier-looking Slapdash is trying ineffectively to hide behind Rewind. Sprocket looks like he wants to laugh. They’re _all_ talking.

“—Was my fault, Ratchet, I bumped him—Oh god, is that Drift? Atomizer did it—”

“—Keep saying it was an _accident_. Ratchet, you have to fix him before he kills me—”

“—Fragging _hurts_ , you damned—”

“—I’m just here to mediate—and to carry, apparently—”

“—Got it all on film if you want to see what _really_ happened—”  

“—Was a real nice shot, though—”

Ratchet grits his denta. “Will you go find First Aid and Ambulon for me?” he mutters to Drift as the peanut gallery rushes Dipstick over to a nearby berth.

“Yeah, no problem. I’ll come back later.” He takes off, leaving Ratchet again to wonder what he’d wanted with him.

—

And then, of course, their next encounter is not in the med bay at all. Rewind calls them in, right as Ratchet’s finished painting his hands. It’s kind of a nice afternoon recounting such a ridiculous story from their shared past. Not to mention, Rung’s talking again, which is a huge relief. He’s given him a thorough checkup, and it’ll take a bit for him to be fully and truly healed, but Ratchet’s feeling a bit lighter, emotionally, than he has in a while.

He’s also been thinking all day about Drift. Not just when he was with him, but thinking about it after, too. It was nice to just goof around, get up to their usual banter. He’s felt a bit isolated from the other bot, which seems a strange thing to feel since they’re not necessarily...linked in any official capacity. He’s thinking about that, too, though. The link between them, however it might present itself. He keeps thinking about Rewind’s heatmaps. His and Drift’s lives have only overlapped a handful of times, but in recent months, he’s grown to feel especially fond of the other mech. Too fond for his own comfort.

Ratchet paces around the med bay. There’s not been very many people in here since Dipstick and the rest of them—which, he gathered from Rewind’s guilty, sheepish look upon inviting him, had been doing the same thing they were today, though to a lesser degree of success. It’s only been a few days, but now he’s thinking about Drift’s comment about First Aid. He and Ambulon _had_ both seemed a bit cross when he’d dismissed them.

He thinks about calling them in, but being alone in the med bay has always been sort of comforting to him, and he’s a little reluctant to let go of the rare privilege. It’s just that in here, he knows how everything works, even if it doesn’t always come out the way he’d like. It’s understandable; it makes sense. He’s been around other bots enough and seen enough of them at their most vulnerable that he thinks he gets that too, maybe better than others who haven’t had the same opportunity. Of course, they’ve all seen death. They’ve all seen pain. Just, to varying degrees.

Drift is no exception. Now it’s been twice that Ratchet’s been with him on the brink of death, although in the most recent case, it was a bit of a shared experience. It had been...frightening. He’s experienced this before—the closer you are, the more it hurts. Which is another reason to maintain distance with a coarse exterior. Gruff words. Insults, on occasion. Something that hasn’t seemed to deter Drift to this point, which, paradoxically, has given Ratchet further cause to appreciate him. And now he’s stuck. It doesn’t seem that there’s much he could do to dissuade Drift of being fond of him, and with that being said, he doesn’t want to. He tries not to think of how much he doesn’t want to.

He’s trapped himself into this recent revelation. If he doesn’t settle out what he really feels for Drift before one of them dies—and they could, out here, at any moment—it’ll be possibly the biggest regret of his life.

It’s not even rejection he’s afraid of. Rejection might honestly be a relief, an excuse to bury this process of spinning useless cycles over Drift imagining what it might be like if he allowed himself to be happy with him. Ratchet’s wary of happiness, because if four million years have taught him anything, it’s that things change.

And when he’s said this to Drift, the other bot has always countered it with some hippie crap about things changing for the better. Ratchet’s not sure if he’s pleased or not to say the fantasy of that possibility is beginning to win him over as he starts to cave under the weight of this crush.

The door to the med bay opens, and Ratchet mentally kicks at the knee-jerk impression that fate has arranged this, which makes two thoughts in a row he’s holding Drift accountable for. Luckily (or unluckily), that exact bot is lingering in the doorway. Ratchet can tell he’s smiling again, and it lessens his desire to berate him for infecting his processor with _optimism_. “We’ve gotta stop meeting like this,” he says.

“What is that supposed to mean? This is my med bay,” Ratchet replies, meeting him in the middle of the room, painfully aware already of how his spark feels a little hardier in the other mech’s presence.

“I dunno. It’s a thing people say.”

“What people?”

“Just people. You know, I’m here for a reason.”

Ratchet gestures grandly towards the multitude of empty berths.

Drift moves to sit and stretches out his shoulders. He doesn’t have his Great Sword with him this time, and something looks off in his plating. “Um, it’s a bit embarrassing, but I got sort of shoved up against a wall. Think something’s out of place.”

“Who’s shoving you up against walls?” Ratchet asks, conjuring up a few unwelcome images of which Rodimus is a key feature in his head, though he keeps his tone even. He starts examining Drift’s plating.

“Er… Cyclonus. I may have aggravated him a bit.”

Ratchet relaxes a bit, feeling petty for getting worked up in the first place. “I’m gonna have to take some of this off to get to the problem. It might take a couple minutes,” Ratchet says, focusing on what’s within his control instead of letting his emotions rule him.

“That’s fine. It might give me a chance to say something that I’ve been trying to say for a bit.”

Ratchet notices his engine isn’t growling like it was the last time they spoke. He tries not to make any predictions. “Go ahead.” Gently, he sets the plates he’s removed on the berth.

“It’s about Delphi...sort of. It’s also about today. And every other day, too. Well, that doesn’t matter. But I guess Delphi made me think more.” He pauses for a moment, but Ratchet doesn’t interject, sensing they’ve not gotten to the heart of Drift’s point. “I know death can be really sudden and it can happen to anyone… Of course I know that. I’ve made my peace with it, for me. I know Primus will protect me—and I know you don’t want to hear that, but just… Well. It’s what I feel. Or, it was. I mean, it _is_ , still, of course.”

He’s getting frustrated, flustered. Though there’s a good deal of internal wiring between his spark and Ratchet’s fingers, he can feel waves of its flutterings pushing back through him, raw against the instruments in his fingers. Ratchet still doesn’t say anything, doesn’t trust himself to. It’s a perfect metaphor, Drift bearing his spark to him while Ratchet is in the perfect position to break his trust, not that he would ever dream of it. He threads his fingers carefully between the cords that got tangled by Drift’s altercation with Cyclonus. “This might pinch a bit,” he says quietly, forcing all of his focus except his audials into the medical task, lest he get preoccupied.

Drift doesn’t respond to his warning, and Ratchet untangles the wires as gently as he can. The mech doesn't so much as flinch. “Listen, that’s not what I’m trying to say. I just… Me dying is something I’ve thought about. You dying isn’t. And I got scared when you took on Pharma. I was scared for both of us. And for me I think it was selfish, because I didn’t want to lose you.” Ratchet picks up the plating he’s removed, numb to Drift’s words for the time being, because if he’s not, he won’t be able to patch him up. “I didn’t want to lose you without telling you...that I love you.”

Ratchet screws in the last few bolts without responding, aware of the long drag of silence he’s indulging, inflicting on Drift, and aware it’s about to hit him. “Good as new.” Without looking at Drift’s face, he moves away from him, over to the door. Drift makes no move for a moment, then heaves himself off the berth and shadows with his field cold and dim.

“I’m sorry,” he says, coming up quickly behind him as they approach the exit. “I shouldn’t have said all that. You don’t have to—” He’s preparing to be ushered out of the med bay when he notices Ratchet click the lock and stops mid-sentence, looking back to the other bot with a wary, curious sort of expression.

“What, did you change your mind already?” Ratchet teases him as easily as ever, a sort of reflex that he throws out because now that he’s not absorbed in a medical task, he risks being completely and totally overcome. His spark is thrumming with more excitement than he’s felt in ages, and on top of it a bit of nervousness now that he’s actually being confronted, presented with something he’s pined in varying degrees of consciousness after for ages. Especially since Drift’s essentially put all of his thoughts since Delphi into words. He’s taken the leap, and Ratchet finds that, confronted with all this, he’s more than willing to reciprocate, all his reservations be damned. He can’t imagine saying not to this even if he knew they were going to die tomorrow. Especially if they were going to die tomorrow. And they could, for all he knows. The decision seals in his head, to make this count.

Drift, on the other hand, is beginning to buzz about as energetic as Rodimus usually is, shifting on his pedes as Ratchet smiles at him. He’s biting his lip, and the doctor finds himself feeling a bit jealous. Everything is breaking through all at once. “That was mean,” Drift tells him, not sounding as upset as perhaps he should be as he sidles in just a bit closer.

Ratchet exvents, trying to rid himself manually of some of the tension he’s carrying. He reaches out tentatively, letting his fingertips graze across Drift’s cheek and relishing in the sparking of their frames making contact with each other. Drift’s hand comes up to curl around his own. Ratchet fears they might both be on the verge of overheating. “I’ll make it up to you.”

Ratchet puts a hand on Drift’s waist and gently steers his back against the door of the medbay, careful of his recent repairs, and laces their fingers together. He pins Drift’s hand next to his cheek as he comes up to kiss him, leaning fully against the other bot and reveling in the receptive warmth of his frame and field. Drift moans and melts against him, using his other hand to tug at Ratchet’s plating and pull him closer, hoping to align their frames at as many points as possible.

The doctor fits himself snugly between Drift’s legs and keeps his hands still tight on his palm and his side. He can feel Drift’s frame vibrating with energy that simply can’t be processed fast enough as he’s pressed firm between himself and the door and he presses his tongue against the seam of Drift’s lips, which part for him so he can dive into his pliant, willing mouth. Ratchet wastes no time acting on his impulse from earlier to nip gently at the soft metal of his lips, and Drift groans, encouraging him to do more. With anyone else, Ratchet doesn’t think he’d need to be coaxed, but his burning for this particular bot has been building so slow and for such a long time that he can’t help feeling surprised that he’s even allowing himself to touch something this beautiful.

His hands, ever used to prodding and precisely poking, are itching to explore Drift’s frame in a most unprofessional way. His fingers ghost across the front of his plating, intending to just touch Drift’s thigh. When they stray too close to his middle, he nearly gets shocked by Drift’s interface panels snapping open, exposing both his spike and his valve. Drift squirms against him briefly and their kiss breaks, leaving both of them venting audibly. Ratchet holds eye contact with him, checking before he deliberately brings his hand closer, tracing a steady line up Drift’s extended spike with the side edge of his thumb. “Your reflexes seem fine. It doesn’t seem like you’re suffering any lasting effects from your _many_ recent illnesses.” Ratchet teases the flustered bot with a smile and a flighty touch.

“Ratchet—” Drift starts to protest, but cuts himself off when Ratchet’s fingers edge closer to his interface equipment to whimper.

“Drift,” Ratchet says back simply, watching as he closes his eyes, lips parted. He really is a wonder.

Drift smiles back rather genuinely and opens just one eye in a sort of backwards wink. “I can’t believe you called me that.”

“What else would I call you?” Ratchet smooths over the defensiveness he feels by playing his fingers downward a little, tracing the base of Drift’s spike and edging closer to his valve, his own spark pulsing in time with the waves of energy Drift is sending towards him. He can _see_ the concentration on Drift’s face as he tries to concentrate his aura or whatever Spectralist mumbo jumbo he’s into in order to not give too strong a reaction. Ratchet feels slightly disappointed that he thinks he needs to shroud himself, here, now, considering he’s always been showy. But Ratchet supposes he can’t quite blame him, since he’s holding back himself, still wary of the long-burning flame he holds for this other bot threatening to make him lose his composure completely.

Ratchet leans his forehead against Drift’s, closing his eyes and ghosting soft vents over Drift’s lips. It felt nice to say. He wonders for a moment why he doesn’t, and then the obvious answer comes to him. At some point, it became too intimate to introduce naturally, once he’d been branded as ‘Kid’ and the like. He’s been tempted in some of their quieter moments together, but it would’ve broken the casual, distant flow he’d established.

“You said my name before, on Delphi.” Drift’s shut his eyes again. He leans his forearms on Ratchet’s shoulders, lacing his fingers loosely at the back of Ratchet’s neck and rubbing his thumbs along the edge of his helm as Ratchet’s fingers dance along the seam of his leg and his body.

“Did I?” Ratchet is too distracted to remember.

“Yeah. I’d almost passed out. On the roof,” Drift murmurs. Ratchet kisses him gently on the lips as he rubs a slow circle against Drift’s anterior node before sliding a finger into him. He makes a soft noise, his whole body moving around Ratchet’s hand, calipers gripping eagerly. “You were so warm…” He’s shaking, impossibly warm and wet.

Ratchet slips another finger into Drift’s slick valve, having intended to test how easy it would be and finding the answer to be _very_. They both make soft noises of slightly different tones as Ratchet curls his fingers slightly, rubbing against the bristling web of sensors inside him. “Don’t stop,” Drift whines, even as Ratchet pulls his fingers back, leaning away from him as well.

Ratchet tries to think of something to say, but the opportunity passes and instead he catches Drift’s gaze, finding his face a poignant and alluring canvas of his arousal. Ratchet’s fans kick up a notch, barely audible, but Drift probably notices. He hopes he does.

“Ratchet, come on, stop teasing me. Please.” Drift bites his lip again.

His mind is going blank with the sheer volume of things he wants to say to the other bot. He looks at him and just gets lost in his optics. His spark is thrumming in waves so thick and strong it’s making him dizzy, and he can’t find any words, so he’ll have to rely on actions instead.

Ratchet leans in close towards the other bot’s mouth again, hovering a fraction away from contact and holding to feel the potent buzz of their fields aligning perfectly for a moment, thrumming in sync that spins up his arousal further. He presses his lips to Drift’s for just a brief moment before he drops down to his knees. Drift’s hands go instantly to Ratchet’s helm, first for balance as Ratchet nudges his shoulder under Drift’s thigh, hiking it up to rest over his back, then passion. He hears Drift utter a little pleased noise of surprise which is quickly overshadowed by a long low moan when Ratchet seals his mouth over his valve and thrusts his tongue straight in.

Ratchet tastes the tang of the lubricant seeping from Drifts walls as he licks over his leaking port, moving up and ending each motion with a swirl around his anterior node. Drift is shaking just slightly, running hot from a high core temperature which spreads outwards and creeps down his extremities so Ratchet can feel him burning where his thigh is pressed against his cheek. The volume of his fans spikes when Ratchet continues to dig his tongue into the other bot, reaching for the sensors along the walls of his valve. “Ahh, _frag_ , Ratchet…” Drift gasps, grinding his hips down against the doctor’s mouth. Ratchet pushes back against him, sucking hard at Drift’s node as he moans repeatedly and clutches the medic’s shoulders. His thigh hugs Ratchet to his dripping valve and he’s slipping against the door as he bucks back against the medic’s face.

It’s almost not enough for him. Drift is rocking against him, clutching him as he tongue-fucks him against the door of the med bay. His field is a staticy mess, bursts of affection and pleasure, and Ratchet still isn’t sure he’s making it clear how much he wants this. His arousal is quickly taking over his desire for saccharine affection, and now he wants to reduce this bot to a puddle to keep him singing his praises.

Drift, of course, is beginning to sound like he couldn’t contain his voice even if he wanted to. Ratchet had made sure the med bay door was locked, and the sign outside should say ‘Back in 10.’ Of course, it’ll be much more than ten if Ratchet has his way. It distantly occurs to him to hope no one with a penchant for gossip happens to be walking by, but can’t bring himself to break away from the lush folds of Drift’s dripping heat. He pushes thoughts of anyone else from his mind, wanting instead to focus on the feeling of Drift clenching up around his tongue when he overloads.

Ratchet smiles gently as his tongue brushes some nodes on the anterior inner wall of Drift’s valve, knowing he’s close to it. “Ratchet, _please_ , oh, _ohh_ ,” he gasps, his leg clamping down even tighter over Ratchet’s shoulder, fingers scrabbling. Drift’s whole frame tenses and valve pulses as the other bot sucks at his node relentlessly, and he shudders to the point of nearly upsetting his balance when the overload hits him. Ratchet keeps working him as he convulses, feeling the mech’s equipment pulsing against him as lubricant leaks from his spike, and only stops when Drift weakly gasps and twitches back with the beginnings of oversensitivity.

The medic straightens up and leans against him, feeling a bit winded and overstimulated himself, but for different reasons. His own fans are working hard, and he vents hot puffs of air. Ratchet sinks into Drift, seeking relief from just the comfort of his frame and the specific smell of his paint.

Drift chuckles weakly. “Do you always get this tender after I overload?” Ratchet grunts half-heartedly. “Wait, I just remembered, am I _actually_ dying?” He seems to have recovered his sense of humor now that he’s burnt off some pent-up energy, which is more than Ratchet can say for himself. He’s still overwhelmed at what he’s just done, and it’s still not enough to sustain him.

“You’re not dying,” he says with a groan. “But I might be.” He hadn’t meant it to sound so needy.

“I’m no doctor, but I think I can do something about that,” Drift coos, really far too smug in the wake of his own personal afterglow. He traces soft lines into the plating of Ratchet’s back.

“We can’t stay in here,” Ratchet says. “I’m calling First Aid.”

Drift chuckles. “I’m surprised at you. Taking a break from your _very important_ duties as Chief Medical Officer to _canoodle_. I’m sure First Aid will appreciate it, and only make fun of you a little.”

“That wouldn’t be in his best interests,” Ratchet says ominously, finding it hard to break away from Drift even in the interests of making sure medical attention is available for the rest of the crew. Instead, he takes him by the hand again and pulls him over to the sink where there’s a cloth and he can clean himself up. Ratchet moves over to make the call, trying to keep his voice even. First Aid sounds suspicious, but not unwilling to come and take his watch. Ratchet’s arousal only ebbs slightly during this brief interlude apart, and he’s dreading going out into the halls.

“Are we going to wait?” Drift asks, coming up behind him, fingers tracing meticulous circles over his hips.

“Do you want to?” Ratchet asks incredulously.

“Not even a little.” Drift takes his hand. “Your quarters are closer,” he says as he unlocks the door and pulls Ratchet through it, walking a bit faster than what the medic might call a comfortable pace.

The hallway outside seems cooler, and there’s a moment where Ratchet fears walking through the Lost Light with Drift holding his hand for anyone to see. Not necessarily for his own sake, but he worries that Drift might not be able to command the same amount of respect, which almost seems a ridiculous thing to fear for someone who associates so closely with _Rodimus_ , of all people. But Drift is pulling him so eagerly towards his room, clutching his hand tightly, and they don’t even encounter anyone anyway, so he pushes that thought from his mind and instead allows it to be filled by the warmth of Drift’s enthusiasm. He keeps playing over and over in his head, that small, precious clip of Drift telling him he loves him.

They almost collapse through the door in a pile, but Drift catches them as they squeeze through it and holds Ratchet to him, capturing him in another happy kiss as they stumble backwards. They make their way towards Ratchet’s own berth, crashing down onto it in a tangle of limbs and lips. Drift somehow ends up on top of him, this time sneaking his own hand over Ratchet’s plating and down to the junction of his legs. Ratchet spreads them open to Drift’s touch, letting the panels snap back and his spike pressurize. He groans into the other mech’s mouth at the relief, and again when Drift’s hand curls around him, stroking.

Sharp little teeth nip at Ratchet’s cheeks and lips as he rocks his hips eagerly into Drift’s deft touch. His spike throbs from the cage of Drift’s nimble fingers, stroking and squeezing, playing at the tip, the base, always moving fluidly along with the way Ratchet moves his own body. Ratchet briefly worries he’s in danger of overloading prematurely under Drift’s practiced ministrations.

But then Drift slips off his spike, flipping his hand around and delving into the soft, slick folds of Ratchet’s valve, and he makes a sound rather louder than he’d meant to. His vocalization is matched by one of Drift’s own. “You feel nice…” he says, sounding a bit awed, as he crouches over the doctor, fingering him earnestly in long, quick, hard strokes.

Ratchet nearly chokes on his quickly swelling arousal. Self-servicing hasn’t been especially high on his list of priorities as of late, but when he does, he tends to stick to his spike, which has left his valve eager for attention. Possibly, Drift’s attention in particular. Ratchet grabs his wrist to slow his dizzying pace. “Easy, easy, if you keep that up I’m gonna— _Hnn_ …” Drift cuts him off by dragging his fingers slowly along the outside of his lip and turning his knuckle against Ratchet’s node. Ratchet thrashes his head, venting hard, and Drift presses a kiss to his cheek.

“Sorry, I got excited. You’re never this...open.” He’s still playing around Ratchet’s valve as he says this, smearing freely-flowing lubricant all over Ratchet’s thighs as he explores the different parts of him for varying sensitivity. Ratchet groans again, dropping Drift’s wrist in favor of grabbing his hips and pulling them forward. Drift’s spike deploys again instantly, and they shift together, teasing each other with the promise of joining until Ratchet can’t take it any more.

“Come on, kid,” he coaxes, rocking against Drift’s spike so it drags along his node, his pulsing lips.

“Call me ‘Drift’ again,” Drift says, missing commanding and going for questioning as he looks down at Ratchet’s face.

They watch each other for a moment, and Ratchet’s caught again in another wash of Drift’s field. He pushes back. “Drift—” But Drift’s already pushing into him, and they’re both groaning at the stretch. Ratchet’s valve eases open for him, hugging him in as they both pant. “Go, just go,” Ratchet urges, patting frantically at his arm where it’s braced next to his shoulder. Drift jerks his hips forward to be fully inside him and they hold for a moment, cycling through the tight but comfortable squeeze of their coupling.

Ratchet shifts lightly against him with his eyes closed, relishing in the way his valve is lighting up around Drift’s spike. Drift wriggles as well, and Ratchet can feel him watching him so he looks up again. He sees Drift smiling at him with a kind of wonder (intermixed with his own eager arousal) before he moves in a half-thrust and comes down to kiss Ratchet again. Ratchet groans into his mouth as his half-thrust steadies out and he starts to move regularly, spinning up friction as the ridges of his spike drag along the slick heat of his mesh.

Drift moans as well as his fangs continue to nip across Ratchet’s lips and their glossa tangle together. After Drift’s digital servicing of him, Ratchet was already near ready to overload, but Drift jostles their positions again and somehow pushes even more precisely into him, his abdomen flush against Ratchet’s stomach, pinning his own spike with an extra bout of friction. Ratchet is spinning. He hugs Drift to him in every way he can, letting his frame move and be moved in time with Drift’s thrusts. He’s almost surprised at how easy it is to synchronize with him, but it feels natural. Drift keeps a steady pace, panting against his audial when he breaks from their kiss.

Ratchet groans at a particularly well-aimed thrust that skims across a long, fat streak of nodes. He gasps out Drift’s name again, still getting used to the feel of it on his tongue, but not disliking it. Not disliking any of this. He shivers slightly as Drift pulls back, grounding his hands more solidly against the berth and rocking ever-steadily into him. “Haa… You’re...good at this,” he barely chokes out.

Drift’s engine gives a purr as he slows the roll and rhythm of his body. “I like it when you compliment me,” he says, giving Ratchet a self-satisfied look.

“Does your ego really need any more stroking?” Ratchet laughs.

“It’s different...with you,” Drift says honestly, slowing down even more.

Ratchet watches him for a moment, the earnest expression on his face. With Drift still deep in him, he imagines he isn’t pulling off any kind of guarding with much success either, and he finds he doesn’t mind. What he does mind is that Drift still seems to be slowing down. “Are you getting tired, or— Hey, _urgh_. What’s wrong?”

Drift pulls out completely, spike still fully pressurized and dripping with a mixture of two mechs’ lubricants. Ratchet throws his helm back, groaning at the loss as his valve squeezes anxiously around nothing. He looks up as Drift moves, wondering if it was really his lack of immediate response that triggered this. That wasn’t his intention, and he’s more than willing to make up for it.

He strokes Drift’s forearms. “Drift?” The other mech is shaking as he slings one leg over Ratchet’s hips, then the other. Ratchet only realizes what he’s doing as Drift practically slams himself down over his spike, giving a loud, lewd moan. Ratchet’s interface systems immediately rewire the build-up of his impending overload to his spike, and it’s _powerful_. Drift doesn’t give him any time to adjust before he starts riding him, thick streams of lubricant trailing down over his spike and sticking on Drift’s already wet thighs.

“Ratchet— _Ahh!_ ”

Ratchet grabs his hips, forcibly slowing him to a more manageable pace so he can draw out the experience. His systems are buzzing, holding back from the immense pleasure both from the friction and the ever-present warm washes of Drift’s field circling him, which he reciprocates. The other bot has his hands planted on Ratchet’s windshield as an anchor, now letting the doctor guide his speed, with some reluctance. “You don’t understand—how long I’ve wanted to— _ah—_ do this…” Drift murmurs.

Even though he’s holding him, guiding him, he can’t keep Drift from squeezing his valve around his spike as he slowly draws back, lighting up the sensors all along his length so the biolights flutter impatiently. “You think _I_ don’t understand? Drift—this is killing me. I’ve—I’ve loved you since—”

Drift lifts his head suddenly, smiling even as he vents. “Love?”

He hadn’t said it. He hadn’t said it back yet. Stupid. It must show on his face. “Yes, of course I love you. Idiot.”

“ _Ah—_ ” Drift’s hips slip out of his grasp, resulting in a particularly hard, fast thrust, and Ratchet gives in, matching Drift’s frantic pace. “Ratchet—” Ratchet grabs for his hand, squeezes it, and wraps the other around Drift’s spike. He barely touches him before his hips stutter, and transfluid spills over them in a mess. His valve seizes around Ratchet’s spike and he groans, thrusting harder up into the other bot before Ratchet’s overload catches him just moments later, Drift’s name on his lips.

They ride it out for a long while, longer than is comfortable for either of them, until Drift, swaying slightly, lifts himself off Ratchet’s spike and falls forward. Ratchet reaches out to stroke his cheek again, and Drift collapses the rest of the way down, half his frame flung over the medic’s. They fall into a lazy, breathless kiss.

“...’m happy,” he barely hears Drift murmur between their lips.

“Me too,” Ratchet whispers back.

Drift offlines not long after, but Ratchet lies awake, head spinning. He disentangles himself gently to clean up both himself and Drift, surprised at the noticeable but not regrettable ache between his legs. And then he eases back under his arm, noting how different it is from the last time they’d offlined together. For one thing, he’s got both his arms. For another, he’d dare anyone, whether he believed in them or not, to interrupt this moment between them. Because he wasn’t lying. Here, with Drift, right now, he’s happy. And no matter what comes tomorrow, he feels like that’s not something he’s going to easily forget.


End file.
